


Alive

by sxetia



Category: Chrono Cross
Genre: Arguments, Because I don't know, Domesticity, Drabble, F/M, Marriage, Post-Canon, Relationship Study, Trauma, about 3 years after the ending of chrono cross, character-study, don't ask how the ending led to this, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29191431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxetia/pseuds/sxetia
Summary: It's all too perfect. Kid doesn't feel like she deserves it.
Relationships: Kid/Serge (Chrono Cross)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> arden knows exactly what the fuck their role in the creation of this fic for a game they've never played is

Kid cannot breathe — wakes her up but she doesn't sleep heavy anyways, could never afford to since she was worldweary enough to know that a young girl curled up alone was a dream come true for many a wayward vagrant — and struggles to discern whether it's because of the weight on her chest or the mass of prickly strands blocking her nose. Rough hands creep out to paw at whatever's atop her, suspicions immediately confirmed: she feels work-honed muscle under warm, salted skin, steadily rising and falling underneath her touch.

One eye opens, and her frustrated grimace slowly creeps up into amusement as she tilts her head just enough to avoid getting another nose full of Serge's hair. He always sleeps like a rock in a tornado, unaltered even when he can't seem to quit tossing and turning for the life of him. She wiggles an arm free and curls it around the back of his neck, then nuzzles him just above his ear. Fine, fine, fine, she'll play by his rules. Trapped, all but forced to relax, doomed to a fate of a lazy morning.

Kid lets that eye slowly droop shut again, smirk still plastered on chapped lips. Hell, maybe she'll she'll get some more sleep like this — or she _could_ if her mind didn't start to wander. Which it always does, inevitably. Too much time on her own made Kid _real_ good at thinking. 

She can only maintain happiness for as long as she lets herself forget the pain, and she never truly _forgets_ it. It's like trying to forget her hair, or her legs, or her eyes. It is a part of her, and it lingers even when she's long past living in it. Stains her skin, dirties her soul.

The frown is back when she opens her eyes and studies Serge's greasy, jagged locks — unconscious, he has no idea. Sometimes she wonders what he dreams about, because he sure as hell doesn't like to talk about it. Not that Serge really likes talking much to begin with, but he'll open up if he feels up to it. Never feels up to talking about dreams, though. Which is fine. He has his boundaries and she has hers. It's nice, mutual respect and understanding — fortifies the basic gratification and validation of the love itself.

But what has Kid done to deserve that? How long will it last?

She finds herself gripping the back of Serge's neck like a security blanket or some other childish bullshit. Like he's her anchor, the last thing keeping her from drifting off. And he is, she figures. If not for him she would probably be out wandering and stealing and killing again just like always. The thought of returning to that life doesn't bother her as much as not having Serge does.

But she does have him. She doesn't have to go back to that anymore, doesn't need to think of it. Eyes forward on the future, life as vast and full of potential as the open seas.

But what lies beyond the horizon?

* * *

Serge finds her hunched over the edge of the pier; she's got one of the barnacle-covered sea traps pulled up at her side and something in her hands. Can't see what exactly — but before he can draw near enough to see his foot hits a weaker plank and the _creak_ activates Kid's long-honed instincts. 

She snaps to face him, pupils shrunk and brow knitted like she's trying to scare off a predator. Her old gloves protect her hands from the mess she's making and the knife she's using to make the mess — looks like a smaller Sidesteppa judging from the dark purple shell. Must have caught it in the trap, considering that she's going at it with Serge's cleaning knife and not pouncing it with her _personal_ dagger.

For a second she hesitates before turning her head back to the crab and getting back to work — sticks the blade under the upper shell and pops it off with a sickening _schrkck,_ making sure the creature is thoroughly dead. 

She speaks without looking at him. "Mornin'. Guess it's closer t'afternoon now though, judgin' by the sun. Was tryin' to see if I couldn't catch somethin' for us to eat, but y'scared th'piss outta me jus' now…"

Serge knows she isn't _really_ scared. Just easier to be a little incorrect than to say "you put me in fight or flight because hey man you don't just unlearn survival tactics over a few years' time." He gets that way too, sometimes, and so he strides towards her — naked save for his bed shorts, still in that state of lazy lethargy that sleep leaves when it departs. 

"Sorry."

Kid perks up a little bit. Always does whenever he talks. "S'all good," she says as if hearing his voice is enough to lull her back to objective normality. 

There's a little smile on his face as he rounds and crouches next to the trap. Empty. Serge squints, puzzled, then looks up at her. Takes her a second to realize he's staring before she looks up at him, then at the trap, and then curls her lips like a tilde. "Forgot t'put bait in it last night. Think this poor little fucker jus' wandered in on 'is own 'cus of bad luck."

Serge shrugs his shoulders. She's still learning — it wasn't until relatively recently that Kid decided she wanted to help him out with the fishing (and the cleaning, and the selling) because she hated the idea of having to rely on a man to take care of her and wanted to pull her own weight, and God only knew Serge wasn't going to let her feel like she still had to steal and kill for a living anymore. He still does the cooking, though. Teases Kid about her lack of finesse, which makes her grumble obscenities and bop the balls of her fists against his back and sides.

Sidetracked. Lost the point. He's teaching her the ropes and sometimes she screws up, which is fine. He's been a fisherman for the better part of twenty years and will probably be a fisherman for the rest of his mortal life. Kid has been trying to be a fisherman for about a month and might decide she's sick of it in another month. Still, she almost looks embarrassed when she talks about her mistakes, like it's some kind of great failure.

"That'll be enough," he says, gesturing to the latest entry on the list of lives Kid has taken. "I think we still have some roots and greens in the cupboard that Orcha gave us, probably some rice — and if not I was gonna go to the market in Termina later today anyways, so it'll work out."

Serge reaches out to take the Sidesteppa only for Kid to pout and hold it against her tunic, unbothered by the stains. Then she sticks a bare foot out to nudge Serge away, tongue lulling out like a toddler. "I wanna clean it meself," she insists. "Go put some clothes on'r somethin'. Look like onna' them cheap red-light boys in th'inns down south…"

God, she's funny, and the way he laughs at her display of pride just makes her jab him with her foot again. "I said go…!"

He nods and departs by leaning in to give her a good-morning kiss. No matter how much she was griping and pouting just seconds before, she hesitates before pushing into it and tilting her head a little. She tastes like saltwater and crab innards.

* * *

There's something too damn idyllic about the life that they lead now and Kid can't let go of it, can't drop the guilt. The reunion, the marriage, the slow settle into a steady domestic rhythm-and-routine, it was all—… perfect. Everything fell into place _exactly_ the way it should have, like their very own happy ending, and it doesn't sit right with Kid.

She can mark the days since _old life_ and _new life_ by the growth of her hair. With a place to call home and a steady source of income she didn't spend as much time out and about or in the water, and thus didn't damage her hair so damn much. Sun-bleached frizz steadily gave way to her natural teal locks, long and straight instead of tangled, knotted and torn. At this point she looks like she's frosted her damned tips, with the last vestiges of her old blonde resting at the edges that she'd cut with her dagger.

Kid takes one lock between her fingers and holds it out in front of her face, in the exact midpoint between her face and the mirror, then buffs as she drops it. Tosses it behind her back and pulls a handful of it up above her head and then tucks her ribbon underneath it so she can pull it _tight._ Half-up, half-down. Doesn't make the dissonance between her hair's colors so obvious this way. Makes her look like a bit of a priss between the hairdo and the fancy dress, though, but Serge was so enthusiastic about getting it for her that she feels kinda _obligated_ to wear it.

And, not that she'll admit it, she _likes_ looking good for Serge. Likes being pretty. Doesn't plan on being a trophy wife any time soon, but like, she _gets_ it.

Whatever! Whatever. She guesses she doesn't have anybody to intimidate or threaten anymore so it doesn't really matter. Kid glances at her desk — candle, wedding photo, journal — and then scoops the book up before making her way out of her and Serge's bedroom and into the kitchen.

Her husband (still makes her a little giddy to phrase it like that) is parked right in front of the Element-powered stove, a pot boiling on one burner and a pan sizzling on the other. He finally put some damn clothes on, though Serge's lazy fashion sense means that he just pulled on a work shirt and exchanged one pair of shorts for another. The food smells good — Kid thinks she can even catch a whiff of what she caught a little while ago, though by her own admission she doesn't know enough about the culinary arts to tell one ingredient from another, especially when it's all mixed together.

It's all comfortable, homey, warm. Familiar. Sits like a rock in her stomach. Of all people…

It's Kid's chance to catch Serge off-guard now, as the sounds of cooking mask her footsteps as she appears behind him and plants a peck on his cheek. He grins but doesn't take his focus off the food, busy stirring and tossing and watching for proper colors. 

Works for Kid; she just goes over to the table, pulls up her chair and settles into it — then completely betrays the air of dignity that the dress and hairdo suggests as she tosses a foot up on the table in the most unladylike manner imaginable. The journal gets propped up against the tossed-up leg as she opens it and grabs the pencil from between the pages, author ready to write…

And yet the words just don't come. Can't figure out what she wants to say, what would be good enough. If she's gonna do this, years and years after she bloody well should have, she'd better do it _right._ Nothing ever seems good enough for it.

She's been stuck on the same line for a good five minutes when she hears Serge make a noise; inquisitive but without enunciation. When she looks up he's staring at the book and looking back and forth between it and her. Kid bites her lip. "Writin' a letter. Kinda."

"For who?"

An uncomfortable shifting in the chair, like if she repositions her arse in _just_ the right way she'll be able to wiggle out of the question. No dice. She sighs. "Writin' me Sis back."

Serge releases a somewhat somber sound, though she can tell he's trying not to lay it on too thick — probably doesn't want to seem like he's pitying her since he knows she hates that. Hard not to be a little bummed out though, considering the topic.

"Can't send it, obviously, but—… dunno. Feels right to not leave her hangin'. Think she would like to know I read it 'n have things to say, y'know? I just—…" Grimace. "I dunno what to tell her."

“Maybe all that’s happened since the last time you saw her.”

“But where th’fuck would I even begin?” Kid leans back in the chair and smacks the pencil against the paper, right where paper meets spine. Not getting any writing done anytime soon. “‘Oh, yeah, Sis, there was that one time I almost got raped inna’ middle of the bad part of Porre? First time I cut a man’s throat open?’ Even with th’whole… Time Devourer shit. Like—… I dunno. I ain’t complainin’ and I don’t wanna sound like I wanna go back to killin’ an’ fightin’ all the time, but don’t this all seem a little too perfect t’you, Serge?”

Even with his back turned Kid can see the grimace on his face, and she sighs — not regretting what she said, but maybe regretting saying it _like_ that. Serge breaks away from the pan and looks at her for a second; that hardness is back, the cold look in his eye that he earned during his one-man war against Fate and _tries_ not to show if he can help it. Doesn’t say anything, though, just—… looks at her. Waits. He waits for her to go on as he pulls the top off the pot and gets to stirring, occasionally dropping in some salt. 

“I mean—… fuck me, right? Nineteen years old an’ I already done th’most important thing I’ll ever do. Now what? I dunno, it’s hard fer’ me t’sit here’n say ‘yeah, this is what me life all amounted to.’”

“Are you unhappy?” He doesn’t look at her, and Kid lets out an exasperated sigh. “If I wasn’t happy I wouldn’t be here, Serge. You know that. It ain’t a matter of happiness, I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, it’s just… I dunno if I deserve that.”

She cannot tell if Serge is remaining quiet because he is upset or because he is Serge, and so she speaks to fill in empty space. 

“I mean, how’s it sound t’you? ‘Yeah, me an’ me husband back in the day waged war on two different universes’n killed a whole lotta’ people, ‘n’ then killed the embodiment of fate itself and Literally God, then went to the place where timelines go to die — we killed a lot of those, by the by! — an’ sang the song that rewrites reality t’kill Alien God an’ free me weird time-sister-mom from Alien God. Then we got split apart by th’timelines becomin’ one again, but I found ‘im, an’ we got married. Now we’re fishermen.’ Like—… after everything that happened, doesn’t all this seem… off, t’you? Doesn’t it bother you? Knowin’ all that we did’s just… sittin’ there, in the back of our minds, never to see th’light’a day again, and now we’re just… normal, or tryin’ to be?”

“It bothers me a lot,” Serge says, and Kid is surprised by both his instant reply and the frankness of it. “I think about it all the time, but I figure—…”

Serge kinda clams up, and the pangs of guilt hilt deep in Kid’s stomach. She _knows_ how uncomfortable he is with speaking, and so she always feels bad when it comes time to have Serious Married Couple Time. 

Still, he gets the words out: “I figure I’m happier here with you than being stuck in Arni for the rest of eternity, or wherever I would have ended up. I would change some things if given the chance—… probably wouldn’t, um. Kill as many people.” He lets that one hang for a long time. “But… I don’t really have any regrets, not now. That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard to let go of, though.”

Even if his near-constant silence won’t make it clear, Kid knows Serge more than well enough to know that he’s telling the truth. He carries it all the time, carries it everywhere, won’t let go of it, can’t let go of it. He’s still so sweet to her, still smiles as wide as ever, but he’s not the same boy he was when she first cornered him on that cliff. A little more stern, a lot more serious. Quicker to snap when it comes down to it, much less merciful. Parts of herself had rubbed off on him, the parts that treated those she loved with utmost compassion and everybody else with utmost cruelty. It rarely comes to that these days, but if push comes to shove... her eyes momentarily drift off to the Mastermune, which had long been regulated to wallhanger duty above their front door. 

“Just feels like… somethin’s missin’, I guess. Like some answers I never got — what th’ell is up with Schala, an’ where’d she get off to? What does that reflect off me? An’ what was all of it _for?_ It’s like—… for all of this to have amounted to me an’ you just sittin’ here being happy, after all the pain we caused’n dished out’n _felt_ , it’s like committin’ a sin.”

“Being _alive_ isn’t a sin…!” Kid can’t remember the last time he raised his voice like that. Serge can only turn himself away from the food for a little, lest he burn the food, but when their eyes lock she can _feel_ everything — his frustration, his sadness, the love it’s rooted in. The discomfort of having to actually cry something out like that must have _killed_ him — yet he keeps going, stirring like nothing is wrong, breaking his focus away from the shocked look on Kid’s face.

“It’s—… it’s… it’s not just you that has to deal with all of it, okay? Everybody has to. And every one of those people are glad you’re here and happy that you’re happy. They love you. _I_ love you. So maybe it isn’t fair or it doesn’t make sense, but when have either of our lives been fair? When has _anything_ ever made sense? Back when—…” He stammers as it hits him like a truck. “B-back when everything happened the only thing that kept me going was anger, and the hope that I could see you again. And sometimes it makes me wonder what it means that like, half of the most important thing that ever happened to me was just out of hate. And what it says about me. But then I remember it… doesn’t really matter because it’s a miracle that I exist at all. I’m not supposed to, I’m an anomaly, and—… hell, neither of us are _supposed_ to exist, right?”

He’s touched on a sore spot with that one, and Kid can only uncomfortably shrug. Serge doesn’t look at her, and instead just crouches down to reach behind the stove and turn off the Element that keeps it powered, then immediately pops back up to move the pan off the burner. He can _finally_ give Kid his full attention now: back and ass against the countertop, palms behind him to support himself.

“So that means there’s… nothing wrong with being the way we are. No right way, no wrong way. Everything—… everything we’ve done up to this point is just us making our own way. That’s how it’s _always_ been.”

“And always will be,” Kid says, something close to resigned relief in her voice. Serge just nods his head and sighs, like _he’s_ gracious that he doesn’t have to talk anymore.

And yet he does, because he knows her, and loves her, and knows when she’s in her own head and needs to hear something. “Memories—… they’re important to have around. Important to keep. But they can’t be more important than the past, or your future, or… your life. You really need to stop wondering about the hows-and-whys and just… accept that it is what it is, and you are who you are. Okay?”

Kid doesn’t think she looks very convinced, or sounds very convinced, because she hates that he’s right and thinks he’s being a little bit of an arse about it, but she’s being a _huge_ arse about it, so fair game. “Okay.”

* * *

Kid writes, one line at a time. Sometimes it comes out naturally, sometimes it takes her days and days to decide what wordage to use. They live their lives, carefully, one step at a time, soaking in their first tastes of genuine happiness. She never forgets — he never forgets, they never forget — but, with time, they move on. And the memory lingers, like an old friend, distant but ever-present, connections consistent through time.

_Thus the curtain closes on another tale._

_An eternity has passed...  
Fleeting dreams fade into the distance...  
All that is left now is me and my memories…_

Sometimes they take their boat out to Marbule or Guldove to visit old friends and catch up. Serge mentions wanting to visit Guardia, but Kid isn’t so eager. Too soon. Serge understands; God knows he’s hesitant to return to Arni after everything (though he always loves his mother’s visits). It can come with time, and until then friends new and old are more than enough to keep their horizons expanded. Everyone is moving on, one step at a time, carefully, slowly. Confidently. They change, they all change — they grow. They move on, time marching forward.

Sometimes she swears she sees Lucca in a crowd, or tucked away in the corner of a clay-and-wood hut. It isn’t to be, of course, but still, her big Sis is all around her. Just not in immediately recognizable forms: the spirit of adventure, the pursuit for knowledge, the joy of creation, her essence is alive in everything that Kid touches. Kid supposes that she, too, leaves her imprint on everyone and everything she encounters. With time she even comes to think it’s not entirely a bad thing.

_But I'm sure we'll meet again someday, you and I... Another place, another time.  
It's just that we might not realize that you are you and I am me..._

And in the end, no matter what, she does not regret being alive. Does not regret being born, does not regret meeting Serge, nor being by his side. She loves him. Hell, she loves everybody. One day she realizes she doesn’t have to fake her smile anymore. A new day becomes something to anticipate instead of dread. Not that the dread ever really falters or goes away, but the darkness is cleansed by the light. The strive to be alive is greater than her yearning for death.

_Let us open the door to the great unknown,_  
Come across another reality, and live another today...  
Even when the story has been told, life goes on… 

And for the love of God, Lucca wouldn’t _want_ her to sit around and mope about everything that’s happened to her, so why bother?

The journal, the wedding photo, her amulet — all things that remind her that she is alive, and _why_ she continues to exist in spite of Time’s vendetta.

Nothing can stop her anymore. The flames within stave off the cold all around her.

She closes a letter that will never be sent.

_Until we meet again, take care of yourself, my friend..._

_Forever yours,_

_Schala "Kid" Zeal_


End file.
